


take my career; give her your health

by Princex_N



Category: Bill & Ted (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Arthritic Bill S. Preston Esq., Arthritis, Autistic Ted "Theodore" Logan, Bathing/Washing, Burnout - Freeform, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Disability, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Ableism, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey, Trans Billie and Thea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:02:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29518500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: They have to finish writing this next round of songs, 'cause their labels been hinting that they'll get dropped if they aren't careful, and their kids just came out as their daughters which isn't a problem at all except for trying to make sure they have enough money to help them through the transition stuff once they're older. Plus, the future's still waiting on that one song. Even without all that, it's his job, it's all he's good at and it's what he's supposed to be doing just because that's how things Work.It just is what it is, and maybe it's not fair but even if other people cared about that, his body definitely never has.
Relationships: Ted "Theodore" Logan/Bill S. Preston Esq.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	take my career; give her your health

**Author's Note:**

> i play guitar, but work as an illustrator and not a music man, so if i've goofed any industry terminology: oops. on the other hand, i Am a clown with hell hands struggling to meet deadlines while coping with Bad Bones Disease, so that part will be accurate 
> 
> title's from [Watsky's 'grass is greener'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEjX7y1-Jfk)

Bill's not having a good day. Hell, Bill hasn't been having a good _week_ , and he can never quite tell if he wishes things were different, or if he just wishes he was smart enough to know how to fix them. 

The biggest problem he's got on his plate right now is the fact that they're quickly falling behind on their latest deadlines. It's not like they don't want to work, it's just that the music doesn't seem to be flowing like it usually does. Bill can't act like he's _that_ surprised - they've been working nonstop for months, years really, and he kind of feels like them running out of steam should just be Expected, but mostly it just feels like he and Ted are the only ones who can see it. It had been fun, it _is_ still fun, but sometimes Bill wants to push everything away and just beg for a _moment_ , just a quick breather to get everything back into something resembling under control. 

Execs keep pulling Bill aside to try to get him to do something about Death, but in a way it's almost _easy_ to let the guy take the band down crazy long bass solos no one else can tread on. Apparently the fans don't love to hear them, but Bill thinks they sound okay for the most part, and sometimes he and Ted are so worn thin he thinks they'd go along with it even if they _were_ worse. 

It's not that they don't want to work, but sometimes Bill thinks he'd do _anything_ for a break, even a short one. Not that anyone seems inclined to provide one - ever since the Battle of the Bands people have been pushing them harder and harder, and no matter how far they get Bill still feels like he's scrambling to catch up. 

The second thing is almost small in comparison, but the weather's been truly heinous as of late. It's still early in the year, so maybe it's just to be expected, but it's cold and it's been raining for the past week straight and according to the weather dude it's going to _keep_ raining the whole week through. 

At some point growing up, Bill had loved the rain - the sound of it, the feel of it, the smell of it. To a certain extent, he still does, but not at all the way he did before his joints started turning on him decades too soon. 

His grandma had had arthritis - hands twisted into angry swollen shapes that kind of unnerved Bill when he was little. Caught up in wondering how they could look like that without her ever having smashed them up somehow. Now, he almost wonders if winding up with the same thing as a teenager was some kind of divine retribution for being afraid of her. 

Most of the time he doesn't actually believe that. _Most_ of the time it's not really all too bad, even. It hurts, sure, but it had been surprisingly easy to let that just become the norm. He and Ted trade off lead guitar so that Bill can get little breaks from the intense riffs here and there. They leave amps on stage that are big and sturdy enough for Bill to lean against or sit on, and they let him use a chair when they're in studio to record. The girls know that they can jump on Ted, but not on Bill, and that Ted's the one to go to for help with opening or writing things even though Bill's better at talking to people or helping them with math. 

Usually, Bill just kind of ignores it. He's gotten good at it. He takes Tylenol or Aspirin when he remembers to (when he feels like he's earned it). He does stretches and warmups before they play (and sometimes after), takes hot showers, goes to his doctor's appointments on time even though they never seem to help much. it's whatever. It has to be, right? What other choice does he have? 

But today, this whole week, maybe even this whole _month_ has been different. Bill can't decide if that's just because he's stressed and tired or if maybe things _have_ been worse than usual. He feels like maybe he should know - it's _his_ body, right? But sometimes that's exactly the problem - he's gotten so good at ignoring the state that he's in and it's hard to pull things apart at times like this. 

Either way, it doesn't actually matter. They have to finish writing this next round of songs, 'cause their labels been hinting that they'll get dropped if they aren't careful, and their kids just came out as their _daughters_ which isn't a problem at all except for trying to make sure they have enough money to help them through the transition stuff once they're older. Plus, the future's still waiting on that one song. Even without all that, it's his _job_ , it's all he's good at and it's what he's supposed to be doing just because that's how things Work. 

But Bill's hands are so swollen he can barely get them to curl around the neck of the guitar, and they hurt so bad he can't hold a chord right for more than a minute or two at a time. He's already had to switch from standing to sitting on their beat up couch, curled awkwardly over the instrument and trying not to let it show that even this is wreaking hell on his back. Trying not to let the odd spasms of his legs disrupt the rhythm Ted's setting too badly. 

It's bogus, and heinous, non-righteous and _shitty_ , and every time Bill feels the fatigue making his notes go muted and sour he feels one step closer to breaking the guitar alongside his fucked-up hands. They don't have the _time_ for Bill to be dealing with this - they don't have _time_ to take a break. Even without the ever-present Awareness that it's _them_ that need to unite the world, they've still got loads of people who are waiting on and expecting this next album. Bill could nearly bring himself to dismiss the execs, but the fans? His _family_? It's _got_ to get done, for them if no one else. 

Bill just really, _really_ wishes his stupid bones would get the memo. 

He grits his teeth and just keeps on playing through it, pretends it doesn't bother him and that he can't see the little concerned looks Ted keeps shooting him, because that's what he _does_. It's what he did when he was a teenager and it's what he does now, and it's what he'll do when he's older. All deadlines and obligations aside, Bill likes music and he _loves_ to play - he loved to play even when he didn't know _how_. He already knows he won't ever give it up (even without the future's promise there was never any doubt; it's not like he's good at - or for - anything else, really), and right _now_ he knows he can't afford to let anything rest.

It just is what it is, and maybe it's not fair but even if other people cared about that, his body definitely never has. 

"Do you want to take a break?" Ted asks hesitantly, after about the billionth time Bill's notes have come out flat and muted because he can't get enough strength in his fingers to hold down the strings. 

"No," Bill responds mulishly, but he finally lets himself let go of the fretboard anyway and tries not to wince at how the skin on his hands nearly feels like it could split - like an overripe peach. He glares down at them, like he could change them that easily, and then just goes ahead and pulls the guitar off altogether. He props it up in its stand and leans back against the couch to give his back a break, massaging fruitlessly at his hands. Watches the reddened skin turn white under the slightest hint of pressure, hating how hurt and stiff and sluggish they feel. 

"It's just the weather," he says, just to fill the silence while Ted puts his own guitar away and comes to sit next to him. Nods along when Ted makes a low noise of concern at the sight of Bill's hands, unevenly swollen nearly twice their normal size. He's half-glad he's wearing socks, at least, because he knows his feet probably look just as bad. "Been like this on and off all week." 

Ted bobs his head understandingly, because he's probably the only one who already knows and really gets it. He's always listened to Bill, even when no one else seems to bother. It'd been _him_ who'd tagged alongside Bill to the libraries when his dad and teachers and doctors hadn't given Bill any answers or solutions back in high school when all this was starting. Bill had still done most of the reading himself, but Ted listened as intently as he always does. The two of them had figured this stuff out together, playing guesswork and experiments by ear just like they'd done with just about everything since they were kids. 

"Want me to get a hot pack?" he asks, and Bill bites back a sigh. 

"Don't have enough of them, 's not just my hands." Though his left hand _is_ pulsing with his heart in a most unsettling fashion - overworked and overwrought from trying to force his hands into the right shapes with the right pressure. "Plus, we've gotta get these songs done, dude. The label's gonna kill us if we're behind on another deadline." 

"Yeah," Ted agrees easily enough, even though he doesn't sound any happier about it than Bill is. "But, like, we've still got time for you to rest a little. That's what you say to _me_ when I get overwhelmed and start getting all clumsy, right?" 

"Well, yeah," Bill says reluctantly, because it's _true_ \- they'd known since they were kids that Ted's brain didn't work quite right (and neither did Bill's), and Bill's body didn't work quite right (and neither did Ted's), so they had to look out for and help each other when no one else would (like two halves of one person - but not in the insult way other people said it). "But it's different, dude," he can't help but add, definitely _not_ whining. 

"How come?" 

Ted's eyes are wide and curious, and Bill has to bite his lip because he's got to admit that he doesn't actually have a good answer for that. The one that automatically springs to his tongue is ' _Because it's different - I should be used to this by now'_ , but it's not a good argument and he knows it. It sounds like something Ted's dad would say after all, and if he _did_ ever try to say that to Ted, then Bill would be the one protesting that's not how it works, because it isn't. So that's got to mean the same for him, right?

That still doesn't really _feel_ right. Some part of Bill still protests that it doesn't matter what he feels like or how badly he hurts. That's what other people keep telling him after all, agents and stagehands and opening bands. Hell, even his own dad had just laughed and said, "Just wait 'til you're _my_ age," like it was a joke instead of a threat that had nearly made Bill sick just thinking about it. 

Not that _that_ argument is any better, really. They'd learned _way_ long ago that they couldn't depend on other people's rules or standards, that it only had to matter what _they_ thought - about themselves and each other. They couldn't have made it this long doing it any other way, and so if _Ted_ thinks that Bill can rest, then what other opinion even matters? 

"Ted, my esteemed colleague," Bill says wryly. "You may have a point." 

Ted grins a little, relieved, and knocks their heads together gently (they still don't really kiss or hug much; Ted's always been careful about touching and Bill's whole skeleton never made things easier, not to mention the years of habits built up just to keep safe appearances. Although, in a way, Bill almost likes their little workarounds more just because it's all _theirs_ ). He takes one of Bill's hands into his carefully, and Bill lets him, the way the rough skin of his larger hands encases the hot and tight skin of Bill's almost feels soothing against all the pains. 

"If it's all over, do you wanna just try the bath?" Ted asks, only looking up at Bill's face through his fringe when one of Bill's knees spasms a bit like it's trying to prove a point. 

He wants to, as much as he _doesn't_. He also knows that Ted had a point in saying that pausing for some TLC will probably save them more time in the long run. He also knows that it'll probably be healthier for his body even outside of the work. 

"Are the girls still out?" he asks instead of answering. 

Ted doesn't seem to mind, perking up at the lack of an outright dismissal. "Yeah, the princesses say they won't be back until dinner. I guess buying a whole new wardrobe takes a lot of time; they might be more excited than the girls are." 

Bill huffs out a laugh, amused despite himself. "Lucky us then," he says, and winks a bit when Ted tilts his head in polite confusion. "Care to join me?" 

"Bill, my beloved," Ted says, grinning wide at how Bill flushes from the nickname, "I would be honored." 

He stands up first, offering a hand to help Bill leverage himself up off the couch, and shifts closer to steady him while his knees adjust to taking his weight like it's instinct. Sometimes Bill bristles when people try to help him, especially the people who make a big fuss or show out of it all, but it's never once been like that with Ted. Sweet and careful and always on the right wavelength to know what to do and when to do it; Bill never minds accepting his help at all. 

And the bath _does_ help, even though it takes them forever to figure out how to fit the both of them inside of it. The hot water curls languidly around Bill's shitty body, supporting some joints and gently soothing all the others. Ted holds Bill's hands in the water, until the swelling goes down and he can curl his toes properly and clench his fists with actual strength despite the lingering aches. 

Ted might actually notice that before Bill does, considering he's the one still holding them, but he doesn't complain when Bill doesn't get up. He just hooks his chin over Bill's shoulder, playing absently with his fingers or the surface of the water while they sit together in the quiet, no pressing urge to fill the space between them. 

So it's a little bit of a surprise when Ted says, "I love your hands, dude," all sudden, and Bill can't help but flush at how his hands nearly flinch out of Ted's grip at the statement. 

He opens his mouth - to argue, to protest, to point out that _he_ doesn't really, but Ted doesn't give him much of a chance. He squeezes Bill's hands between his own again, gentle like he's handling something glass or precious, and Bill's throat gets weirdly tight at the sensation. 

"It's bogus that they hurt you," Ted continues, his voice soft right in Bill's ear, "so maybe I don't like that much. But they're _yours,_ babe, so I love them anyway. Or like when you help take my earring out cause I forgot, and when you pack lunches for the girls, or help the princesses hook up their gear, or when we make love." 

Bill is intensely grateful for the heat trapped between their bodies, rising up from the water, because it's convenient cover for the quick tear that manages to escape from his watering eyes. Just from the way that Ted so easily plucked out all the tasks that Bill loves, the ones that don't make his joints creak or ache at all, that don't carry the strain of other people's expectations. Just to be _known_ , so easily and effortlessly. 

Ted weaves their fingers together, pulls their joined hands out of the water just long enough to press a quick kiss to Bill's fingers. 

"We'll get the album done, you know? Sooner or later, we always do. You don't gotta tear yourself apart trying to get it done. You, like, you matter more than the music does." Bill's still reeling a bit from it when he feels Ted shrug and squeeze him a little, tacking on a "Just so you know" in that strange little way that comes from Ted starting to talk without having any idea of where he was going. If Bill's laugh sounds a little wet, well, he's not going to get called on it here.

"Thanks Ted," he manages to choke out, turning his hand around in Ted's to press their palms together. 

It doesn't feel like enough, really, to express all the feelings that are lodged in Bill's chest, but he can't think of any better words. The way Ted presses a little closer, his hair tickling Bill's cheek when he noses against his temple, makes him think that maybe he doesn't have to try to explain himself. 

Bill can't really decide if things are especially _better_ than they were before. His body still feels totally heinous, and the album isn't any closer to being done, and their agents aren't going to be any happier than they were last time, but at the _very_ least it doesn't feel quite as suffocating. Sitting here in the water with Ted, warm and supported, with that indescribable feeling in his chest from just how much he Loves the dude, at the very least he feels like he can breathe a little easier. Even if it's just for a little while, at least it's still something. 

**Author's Note:**

> i've been thinking about bill with arthritis since he tried to play the guitar from the front of the fretboard lmao
> 
> [my tumblr](https://www.princex-n.tumblr.com)


End file.
